eight years ago i was different, i had never been loved, i had never witnessed my grey tabby moan and contract as her kittens breathed their first ounce of oxygen, and i thought that art was simply something you colored in a 20-cent coloring book. my father would've said that i was exclusively extroverted, and even a touch of arrogance would appear on the most unlikely of days.
it intensified in myself to paint. i had seen sally haley's paintings when my best friend's neighbor had been in his teenage art phase, (he had side bangs and blonde streaks that embellished his hair) and i loved the curve of her strokes, i could taste the individual fur of the brush as it paved the canvas, and i wanted to indulge and satiate in the hues.
in school, algebra and geometry nauseated me, and the triangles and squares that i scribbled howled and bellowed at me, taunting me and declaring under their breath, "you're stupid and unintelligent, why are you so afraid of numbers? you're weak, dif